


Yet Always Back Returning to Those First Feelings

by whisperedstory



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Fix-It, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:33:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22546354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whisperedstory/pseuds/whisperedstory
Summary: The first time they see each other again after the fight is a coincidence. Or so Jaskier thinks.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 59
Kudos: 1462





	Yet Always Back Returning to Those First Feelings

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [dancing_adrift](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dancing_Adrift) for betaing and to [Theatregirl7299](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theatregirl7299) for the feedback!  
> Title taken from a poem by Emily Brontë.
> 
> This is my first fic in this fandom, but I already have plans for more. I've been absolutely obsessed with the show and these two in particular.

The first time Jaskier sees Geralt again after the dragon hunt in King Niedamir's Mountains, they run into each other at an inn near Murivel. Fate is funny like that—before he first met Geralt, Jaskier heard tales of him for years, but they never crossed paths. But since their first meeting, there's something that always brings them back together. Until recently, that was something that offered Jaskier comfort, the knowledge that their lives were intertwined, that unshakable belief he had that he was meant to be part of Geralt's life. Of course, that was before. Before Geralt made it clear that he didn't, in fact, share Jaskier's sentiment. 

Still, it seems Jaskier can't escape him even now that he wants to. There's no escaping Geralt, their paths destined to intersect. It's the only explanation Jaskier can think of as to why there's the whole damn Continent, but somehow they've both ended up here, in the small, dreary tavern of an inn. 

Jaskier would leave, but well, he was here first and it's too late to travel and find another place to bed down unless he wants to sleep outside, which Jaskier very much does not. 

If Geralt is that desperate to not be around him, _he_ can leave, Jaskier thinks bitterly as he keeps strumming his lute a little too harshly. A couple of people give him funny looks, but it's not like anyone appreciated his songs before, when he was doing a pretty damn good job, so they can deal with a few harsh, off-key notes now, the whole ungrateful lot of them.

Geralt, of course, notices him too. He sits in a dark corner by himself, drinking ale, and whenever Jaskier glances at him, Geralt is looking right back, his face almost expressionless. Jaskier has half a mind to strut over to him and demand what his problem is, anger simmering low in his belly, and yet a much larger part of him basks in having Geralt's attention on him again, if just for a little while. 

He's missed Geralt.

When he descended the mountains, alone, it had been with an ache in his chest. Jaskier knows what heartbreak feels like and his heart had been _shattered_. The feelings had turned into anger quickly, and for a few weeks Jaskier had stewed, had composed harsh, angry songs and silently cursed Geralt. There'd been drunken rants and a fair share of women he'd tried to get lost in, but it was like the things that used to bring him joy seemed a lot more bleak without Geralt around. And eventually, the anger had drained away and he'd become mauldin again, the thought of his life reverting back to how it used to be before Geralt—when he was on his own except for when he shared the bed with someone for a night, when the most exciting thing that happened to him was being chased out of a town by angry husbands or fathers, when his only inspiration came from his own imagination and tales he overheard in pubs—filling him with deep sorrow. 

But now, here Geralt is.

It's like the first time Jaskier saw him, and all those times since—that same pull he feels, his attention fixed on Geralt even as he tries not to let his eyes linger on him. And isn't that just the most tragic fate, for him to be so drawn to someone who wishes for nothing more than to not be around Jaskier?

Jaskier plays a few more songs, but the inn's patrons barely pay him any attention. 

When he finally puts down his lute, he once again glances at Geralt and their eyes meet. Before Jaskier can look away again, pretend Geralt isn't there, Geralt nods silently at the empty space next to him in a clear invitation for Jaskier to join him. There's a second tankard of ale on the table, too. 

Jaskier tries his best to look unhurried, like he isn't eager to share a space with Geralt again, even if it's just to hear a few grunts and get told just how inaccurate his lyrics are. 

He slides into the chair across from Geralt, putting his lute down next to him. "Well, if it isn't Geralt of Rivia," he says, snark covering his nervousness. "I wasn't aware there weare any pests around here that require a witcher. Didn't think I'd run into you tonight."

 _Or ever again_ , he adds silently. 

"Jaskier," Geralt says, and it doesn't sound harsh or disapproving. 

Jaskier relaxes a little and grabs the second tankard, taking a big gulp. "So. Are there? Any pests?" he prods, and the thought makes him perk up. Not that he particularly likes all the gore and deaths that come with monsters, but it never stopped him from following Geralt into the thick of things. Just to experience the tales he sings about first hand; just to watch Geralt, really, and what he wouldn't give to witness Geralt slay a monster just once more, to be at his side, to recover that part of his life just for a day or two. Not that Geralt would want him around, Jaskier thinks, and he brings the ale back up to his mouth, drains half of it in one go just to chase away the pressure building up in his chest.

"No," Geralt says. 

"Oh," Jaskier mutters. "Good. That's… good. Yeah."

"I'm just passing through town."

"Of course," Jaskier says and forces a smile onto his face. "There's nothing exciting here for a witcher, after all."

His heart cracks once again. Not that it ever mended. No women or ale or songs can really fill that void Jaskier feels inside himself these days.

"I should retire to bed," Jaskier says and gets up, grabbing his lute. "Entertaining the masses is hard work and I'm really tired. Gotta be well rested tomorrow to do it all over again, give these good folks what they're craving."

"Jaskier."

"Good night, Geralt," Jaskier says, softer now. "I guess I'll see you around."

Geralt grunts and Jaskier is pretty damn sure he feels his stare on his back as he retreats, the thought both comforting and saddening him.

*

Jaskier expects Geralt to be gone in the morning, out of his life again as quickly as he stepped back in. Thinks, maybe, if he's lucky, he'll catch one more glance of him before they part ways again. 

Things rarely turn out the way one expects though.

One minute Jaskier is strumming his lute, just tinkering around with a melody as he waits for breakfast to be served, and the next a big, burly guy drags him up by the collar and pushes him, hard, against the wall, pinning him against it, spitting angry words in Jaskier's face about his wife and how he's going to kill him.

Jaskier swallows, struggles against the guy's grip. "Hey now, hey. You must be confusing me with someone, good sir. I have not put a hand on your wife, or anyone else's," he feebly argues. It's a lie, but well, he hasn't _in this town_.

"I don't think I do, bard," the guy hisses, drawing his arm back and Jaskier closes his eyes, waits for the punch he knows will come.

"Let go of him," a deep, familiar voice growls. 

The hold on Jaskier loosens and he slumps against the wall, opening his eyes to see Geralt looming behind the guy. He looks calm, except for his eyes, which are as hard as the steel blade he's holding up against the guy's throat.

Jaskier's attacker backs away after one glance at Geralt.

"Touch him again and it'll be the last thing you'll ever do," Geralt warns, and Jaskier sighs in relief as the guy throws another dirty look at Jaskier and then scurries away.

"Oh, thank fuck," Jaskier mutters. "Geralt, you came just in time."

"Hmm," Geralt huffs and sheathes his sword again. "Let's get out of here, Jaskier. Get your things."

For a moment Jaskier is stumped by the reply. He wonders if he hit his head when the guy pushed him against the wall, if maybe he's hallucinating or if he's suffering from memory loss and missed the part where he and Geralt made up. Because Geralt wants Jaskier to leave _with him_. 

He opens his mouth, but then snaps it shut again, because who is he to question Geralt's offer—or order, really—when this is what he's been wanting. What he thought he'd never get to have again.

"Right. My things," he says and nods before Geralt can change his mind again. "Yeah. I'll be right back. Just one moment. Don't… leave."

He thinks he sees Geralt's lips lift into the tiniest of smiles and Geralt nods.

*

Jaskier hasn't seen Roach for as long as he hasn't seen Geralt, and he missed her almost as much, he realizes as he strokes her flank. She neighs once, and Jaskier smiles.

"Missed me, too, huh?" he asks. "I bet you did. It must have been boring, just having that mulish witcher for company. No song or poem, no tales."

Geralt grunts. "Quite full of yourself there." 

Jaskier tosses him a grin and then hefts his things onto Roach. 

To his surprise, Geralt doesn't mount Roach; instead he takes her reins and walks besides Jaskier as they head out of town. 

It's almost like old times. Jaskier tries to keep his ramblings to a minimum, trying a little harder not to annoy Geralt this time around, and Geralt cuts him some looks that Jaskier can't decipher, but it's good just to be at Geralt's side again. Jaskier isn't sure if this time it's going to be permanent, doesn't know where they're headed or what for, but he doesn't dare ask too many questions, disrupt the peace between them. This is what he's been hoping for after all, just one more chance to accompany Geralt again, for as long as Geralt will have him.

Eventually, Jaskier can't stand the silence—he never could, probably not since the day he was born, he thinks—and he starts humming tunes under his breath, singing a quiet word here and there, a line at most. 

Geralt doesn't seem to mind. He seems… different. _Softer_ , by Geralt's standards at least, Jaskier dares to think, even though he'd never tell Geralt. But his posture is more relaxed, his expression less steely. 

Jaskier likes it. Likes the thought that, perhaps, Geralt isn't bothered by his presence. That he missed this too. That, despite what Geralt has told him countless times, witchers aren't any less immune to needing someone, to craving company, than humans are.

*

They set camp in a forest that night. Jaskier gathers wood and lights a fire while Geralt vanishes to hunt for food and it doesn't take long before he returns with a dead hare. 

He skins and guts it and Jaskier has never liked watching him do that, so he sits against a tree with his lute in his lap. He keeps his voice quiet, strums the lute gently, but it works for the song. It's one he wrote not too long ago, a mauldin tale of loss and loneliness. One he wrote with Geralt on his mind, but most of his songs have been about Geralt in one way or another since the day they met.

When he finishes, Geralt is watching him. There's blood on his hands and the gold of his eyes looks warm in the light of the fire.

"Jaskier," he says, and his tone is so _bleak_. 

The thing is, Jaskier knows Geralt. Better than Geralt thinks he does, better than anyone else on the Continent. And he can hear so many things in Geralt's voice, can read even more on his face. The regret, the apology Jaskier knows Geralt will never voice. 

Jaskier forgave him a long time ago. 

"I know, I know," Jaskier says with a smile, ready to get this over with, to move on. "Things were said. You were mad, I was mad too, after. But it was what it was. And you probably missed me terribly."

Geralt's brows knit together, lips curving down in a frown.

"It doesn't matter anymore," Jaskier continues, before Geralt can voice denial. "I'm starving, Geralt. Come on, I did my part, you do yours. I'm not going to go to bed hungry because you're too busy staring at me to get some meat over the fire."

"I don't stare at you," Geralt snorts, and Jaskier grins.

"Whatever you say," he teases, and lets his fingers play over the strings before picking another tune.

*

They travel for five days before they wander into another town. Jaskier was here just a few weeks ago and he made good coins playing his music in the inn for a couple of nights. 

The barmaid remembers him as well, smiling when Jaskier goes to order some ale and dinner. 

"Back so soon?" she asks, and Jaskier leans against the bar.

"I suppose I couldn't stay away," he says with a wink. 

She laughs and then her attention is drawn to the door. Jaskier knows Geralt has just come in, after getting Roach settled in the small stables, without having to look.

The barmaid's smile goes softer. As she puts down two tankards with ale, she looks at the table in the far corner where Geralt has settled and then back at Jaskier.

"He's found you then."

"Huh? Who has found me?" Jaskier asks and looks around with a bit of dread, wondering if he's in trouble yet again. 

"The witcher," the barmaid says.

"The…" Jaskier starts and gapes at her. "He was looking for me?"

"Came in here a couple of weeks ago, stayed long enough to have a drink and ask if a bard had been here recently," the barmaid says, and something deep inside Jaskier warms. "I thought maybe you were in trouble with him, so I didn't say anything, but someone else remembered you being here."

"Oh, I'm in trouble, alright," Jaskier says with a laugh. He fishes out some coins, and sneaks a glance at Geralt. 

He isn't surprised to find Geralt looking right back at him this time. 

"We need a room too," he says to the barmaid, smiling. "And a hot bath for after supper, please."

*

Jaskier takes a bath first, scrubbing a few days worth of dust and grime off his skin until it's pink and warm. After, he gets dressed in linen breeches and a shirt, sitting on the bed with his hair damp and watches Geralt tip his head back as he relaxes in the bath.

"Why were you in Murivel?" Jaskier asks.

Geralt lifts his head, looks at him with a frown. "Hmm?"

"Were you looking for me?" Jaskier prods. 

"Of course not," Geralt scoffs, and Jaskier cocks his head to the side.

"Oh, really?" he asks. "Because I hear you were asking around for me, Geralt. Which leads me to believe you were, indeed, trying to find me. _Tracking_ me."

"Don't be ridiculous," Geralt counters, bending one leg at the knee so it sticks out of the water, the skin golden tan.

Jaskier licks his lips. "You really did miss me," he says softly, smiling. 

"You're a nuisance," Geralt says. "You're too loud and you can't sit still and you _always_ attract trouble."

Jaskier laughs, Geralt's words filling him with fondness rather than hurt. "And yet, you followed me and found me and now here we are," he says. 

"Jaskier," Geralt grunts, his tone warning, telling Jaskier to cut it out.

Jaskier's grin softens. "For what it's worth, I'm glad you did," he admits. 

"You would get yourself killed without me. I didn't want your death on my conscience," Geralt says and stands up. Water sluices down his body, dripping off his chest as he steps out of the tub. Jaskier watches, unabashed, and briefly their eyes lock before Geralt grabs a cloth to dry off.

He rubs himself down roughly, and Jaskier just keeps looking and Geralt lets him. He grabs some clothes and Jaskier scoots back on the bed, warmth settling low in his belly knowing they'll share the bed tonight. They've done this before, getting one room instead of two because it's cheaper, convenient. 

"Tired?" Jaskier asks, feeling the need to say _something_.

Geralt stands in the middle of the room, by the foot of his bed, in dark breeches and a shirt with the top buttons undone, his medallion resting against bare skin. 

"Jaskier," he says, voice low and rough. "Come here."

Jaskier doesn't ask questions; he gets up and crosses the short distance between them. Geralt watches him closely, like a predator watching its prey, except his expression is torn, like he doesn't know quite what to do with Jaskier despite the fact that he called Jaskier to him.

Jaskier holds his breath, waiting, for once completely out of things to say. There's a thick tension in the air and he thinks he knows what is happening between them. It's been a long time coming and yet it's a complete surprise, something Jaskier has wanted but never believed he would get. 

"You're infuriating," Geralt finally says, and then he curls his hands around Jaskier's shoulders, grips him firmly and pulls him close. Jaskier barely has time to react before Geralt's mouth is on his. One of Geralt's hands slides up, cups his neck, and he kisses Jaskier deeply, hungrily, like he's _dying_ for it. 

Like Jaskier has been, since the day he laid eyes on Geralt of Rivia and his world tilted on its axis. 

He groans into the kiss, pushes himself closer, until he's pressed against Geralt, feels the heat of his skin through both of their clothes. He wraps his arms around Geralt's neck, lets Geralt coax his head to the side, and the angle is even better like this, the kiss even deeper as Jaskier parts his lips under Geralt's.

"Geralt," he murmurs between kisses. "Fuck, _Geralt_."

Geralt pulls back and grunts, and then he nudges Jaskier to the bed, pushes him down onto it and crawls on top of him, and Jaskier allows himself to completely surrender to him. His legs fall open and Geralt settles between them. He kisses him again and again, eating the needy moans and whimpers out of Jaskier's mouth as he starts rutting down against him. Jaskier can't do much more than hold on, arch up against Geralt helplessly, Geralt's weight pinning him against the mattress, and Jaskier has never felt like this, owned so completely, this wanted, this safe. 

*

One of Jaskier's last thoughts before falling asleep tonight had been that he would probably wake up alone. That Geralt would be up and pretending this never happened. Or worse, that he would have left and that idea would have sent Jaskier into a panicked frenzy if he hadn't been on the verge of sleep already.

But Geralt is still here. 

When Jaskier blinks awake muzzily, Geralt is lying next to him on his back, one arm tucked under his head as he stares up at the ceiling, the other one resting on his stomach just above Jaskier's, hand curled loosely around Jaskier's forearm. 

"Hmm," Jaskier hums, pleasantly surprised, and his lips curve up.

Geralt turns his head slightly towards him, eyebrows raised, not saying a word. 

Deciding to test the waters, Jaskier shifts just a little closer, lets his shin press against Geralt's leg. Geralt slides his hand down to Jaskier's wrist, doesn't let go or squeeze in warning.

"Well," Jaskier murmurs, voice thick with sleep. "Good morning. Beautiful day, isn't it?"

"It's raining."

Jaskier's smile widens. "I love rain."

"You hate rain," Geralt replies, and Jaskier lifts himself up, drapes himself over Geralt to rest his head on Geralt's chest because why the fuck not? 

"Not today," he says, and Geralt's huff sounds almost like a laugh. 

*

Jaskier would have loved to stay at the inn for another day or two, explore this _thing_ between them, perhaps not even leave the bed. But he knows Geralt isn't one for lazing around and they're running a little low on coins, so he doesn't argue when Geralt starts packing his things.

They're back on the road before long. It's like nothing has changed and yet everything is different. Geralt is still quiet, still broody and serious, and Jaskier still doesn't mind. He still huffs and grumbles when Jaskier's lyrics are more fiction than fact and still complains about Jaskier's tendency to never shut up. But sometimes Jaskier catches Geralt's gaze lingering on him now, and he doesn't look away when he's caught, and Jaskier isn't too proud to admit that it sends heat through him every single time. They sit closer together now, arms and legs brushing, and they always bed down together, warm bodies pressed close, mouths and hands seeking each other out. 

It makes sense, this thing between them, even if neither of them puts a name to it. 

*

The forest is dark and damp, the ground squishy under Jaskier's feet. It's been raining, though not heavily, all day and the trees have already lost enough leaves for the wetness to trickle through.

They have enough coin to get a room somewhere—Geralt made a decent amount of money in two consecutive towns they traveled through, killing a fogler and a ghoul, and Jaskier made even more playing his songs in the town's taverns— but they're nowhere near a town right now. 

At least it's not cold enough yet that the rain chills him to the bone, Geralt's heavy cloak which he tossed at Jaskier that morning enough to keep him warm. It smells like Geralt, too, which is an added bonus and more than makes up for the fact that Jaskier probably looks horrendous in it. 

They stop around noon to have some lunch, sharing some cured meat and cheese, and despite the damp, cold log they're sitting on, Jaskier would like to not get up and move again, belly full with food making him a little sleepy.

"We should have stayed in Yspaden," he sighs. "Could have waited out the rain, maybe. Or at least gotten a few more days of—"

Geralt shushes him, and Jaskier stops talking. He is about to start talking again, to ask Geralt what the hell he silenced him for, when he looks at Geralt and finds him staring off into the thicket, brows drawn and body tense. He gets up and pulls his sword out of his sheath, not a moment too soon before the bushes rustle and something jumps out. Jaskier yelps, startled, and nearly falls off the log as Geralt raises his sword and slashes the beast, making it howl and hiss and scatter back. It's big, with shaggy fur and bared teeth, and Geralt charges at it just as another one breaks through the thicket and heads right for Jaskier, slow and predatory.

"Geralt," Jaskier yells, getting up and stumbling back. His foot gets caught on something and he crashes down, grunting as he hits the ground. With a roar the beast leaps at him and Jaskier raises his arms to shield his face and tries to roll out of the way. Sharp claws catch his side, dig in and drag down, and he cries out just as the beast howls and its heavy body slumps down. It lands half on top of him before it's pushed off. 

Jaskier drops his arms, hissing at the pain, and turns his head to see the decapitated body of the beast.

"Jaskier." Geralt says his name loudly, almost desperately. He grabs Jaskier, pulls him up into a sitting position, and Jaskier cries out at the pain that shoots up his side. "You're hurt."

Jaskier scrunches up his face, breathing through the pain. "What were those things?" he asks. 

"Leucrotes," Geralt says, sounding distracted. He's pushing the cloak aside. "I need to see how bad it is. Patch you up. Sit on the log so I can see better."

Jaskier nods and grits his teeth as Geralt helps him up and then out of his jacket and shirt to reveal his injured side. Bare-chested, Jaskier finally feels chilled and he shudders, and Geralt wraps his cloak back around him. He makes Jaskier lift his arm even though it _hurts_ , and then Jaskier tries to sit as still as possible as Geralt takes care of the three long lacerations the claws left on his skin.

"They're not too deep," Geralt says. Jaskier nods and hisses as Geralt cleans the wounds with water and then smears a salve onto them before bandaging Jaskier up. Whatever concoction the salve is, it numbs the pain quickly and Jaskier breathes a little easier.

Geralt is still kneeling in front of him, looking at him with deep golden eyes, mouth pressed in a tight line and brow furrowed.

"You think it'll leave scars? I hope it won't. Not that there's anything wrong with scars. I like yours. They make you look, you know, like a tough, heroic witcher who bests monsters for a living, which is _quite_ appealing," Jaskier says. "But I don't think I'd look quite as good with them as you do. I'm more, you know, the _pretty_ kind of attractive."

"Jaskier," Geralt grits out. "You have to stop getting hurt. _Fuck_."

And then he pulls Jaskier forward, right onto his lap. It makes pain flare up again, but Jaskier ignores it because Geralt's mouth finds his in a hard kiss. Things between them are always a little rough, but this is different. Jaskier can almost taste Geralt's desperation and he buries his hands in Geralt's damp, tangled hair and lets him take what he wants, what he _needs_.

It doesn't matter that they're in the middle of a forest, wet with rain still coming down, and two bleeding, dead leucrotes lying on the ground next to them. 

Geralt's hands roam over Jaskier's body, gripping and stroking and holding on to him. Fingers fumble with trousers and Geralt easily pushes and pulls Jaskier where he wants him, kisses him as he draws needy moans out of him, first with his fingers and then as he buries himself deep inside. Jaskier hides his face in the crook of Geralt's neck then, bites and pants and mewls as Geralt takes him apart and makes him scream.

*

Jaskier's wounds heal quickly and he knows it's the salve that Geralt applies every day until the skin has knitted itself back together, leaving behind three pink, slightly raised lines that Geralt assures him will fade.

At night, Geralt splays his hand over the three cuts, gently at first and then more firmly once they're healed up. 

"It's a good thing I've got you to protect me," Jaskier says one night. They're at an inn, laying in bed together, sweaty with limbs tangled, Geralt's hand once again resting on his side, thumb running over the lines that are barely there anymore now.

Geralt hmms in reply. "It'd be easier if you didn't get in trouble at all. But I guess that's too much to ask." 

"Boring lives don't make for great ballads," Jaskier replies. He turns his head, nose bumping against Geralt's chin before he kisses him. "Heroic witchers and their bards do."

Geralt frowns and tightens his grip on him until his fingers are pressing into Jaskier's skin. He'll probably leave a bruise or two, but Jaskier doesn't mind. Those marks, Geralt's marks, are the kind that do look good on him. The kind that he _wants_ , because they tell their own tale. The one that tells people that Jaskier—for as long as Geralt will have him—belongs to the witcher. 

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find me on twitter [@whispered_story](https://twitter.com/whispered_story).


End file.
